Laundry Day
by nowforruin
Summary: A short piece of pure CS fluff.
**Short and sweet. Requested by oncepromised.**

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The buzz of the dryer stops her just before she falls asleep, sprawled on the couch in a rare moment of peace. The house is quiet, Henry with Regina and Killian grocery shopping.

She laughs quietly as she rubs the weariness from her eyes, forcing herself to abandon her warm spot on the sun-drenched sofa. Killian Jones, dread pirate, grocery-shopping extraordinaire. It's just one of the very many odd things about this crazy life of hers.

Padding across the cool floors in a pair of Killian's socks, Emma yawns once more before flipping on the light to the basement – it's just a basement now, not a creepy dungeon where the darkness taunted her with its allure – and descending the stairs.

Humming a song to herself she's picked up from Killian, she goes about the process of emptying the contents of the dryer into a basket and moving the wet, waiting clothes over. With the dryer restarted and the laundry basket carefully balanced against her hip, Emma makes her way upstairs to force herself to put the clothes away before Killian comes home.

It's all so very mundane and domestic, and Emma loves every second of it. _This_ was what she was so afraid of in Camelot? Of living with Killian, every day tasks with him at her side? It doesn't make sense now, but a lot of her fears haven't made sense since she got him back.

Dumping the basket onto the bed, she pushes her hair behind her ears and starts sorting through the mess. Her jeans, Killian's sweater. A pair of socks with tiny anchors on them she bought him as a joke what feels like forever ago and he wears religiously. The delicate lace of her underthings twisted around one of his shirts because she's too lazy to use the separate bag he bought to avoid just this thing. She smirks to herself as she reaches for the shirt, carefully unknotting the straps of her bra that have tangled so hopelessly.

Her fingers moving on their own, her eyes linger on the clothes spread across the bed, the dark shapes of shirts and pants and socks broken here and there by patches of color and delicate patterns. The ridiculous Captain Hook pajama pants she surprised him with in those early days when he greeted her outside her parents' loft with a coffee and a kiss – the soft black scarf he wrapped around her when she was cold on a walk home. Scraps of fabric that trace the path of their love story with soft cottons and warm wools, a beautiful disarray strewn across the bed they share.

Her chest tight, Emma drops the now untangled shirt, a fierce longing for her pirate making her eyes burn. So much has happened, and they've come so far, but they're here now. Doing laundry. Going grocery shopping. Being normal people.

"Swan, they were all out of that ice cream you wanted, so I got the mint instead. I hope…Emma?" His brows are knit together in concern, and it isn't until he crosses the room and brushes his thumb across the tear on her cheek she realizes she's started to cry.

Unable to explain how socks have reduced her to tears, she simply buries her face in his chest, breathing in his warm, spicy skin and the lingering scent of his leather coat. He gathers her closer instantly, hook resting on her hip as his fingers thread through her hair and his lips brush against her forehead. "Love, what's the matter?"

"Nothing. This is perfect and right and I love you." She tightens her grip, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.

"I love you, too." He kisses her again, a gentle kiss that doesn't ask questions, that doesn't push against her seemingly odd mood. And slowly, that kiss turns to another that turns to another, until half the laundry is on the floor and they've curled into each other beneath the sheets.

The setting sun casts a warm glow over the room, and Emma snuggles closer, Killian's fingers trailing over her bare skin lazily. She's drifting toward sleep when the rumble of his voice brings her back to consciousness.

He's holding the Captain Hook pajama pants when she looks up, a teasing smile on his lips and a glint in his eyes. "Now, Swan, when you said perfect and right, please tell me you meant the real devilishly handsome Captain Hook and not this sad, insulting imitation?"

"I don't know. That mustache…"

"Swan, you wound a man."

She laughs quietly, stretching to press her lips to his. "Of course I meant you. You and me and this house. Us, together."

"Aye, love. Bloody perfect."


End file.
